Six months after this, Sylvester's has gone.
As I was taking the photo, I saw a man in shades watching from across the derelict site. He got into his car and turned the corner towards me, pulling up alongside. We had a conversation. He knew the developer. It's going to be apartments (23 or 32: I forget.)
E and I joke about apartments. There are no apartments left that are not luxory. That means, I think, the cat doesn't have to pull its ears in when you swing it. Oh, and it can have a shower in adjacent bathroom afterwards. (Does your cat shower?)
But although Sylvester's was a beautiful burst of pastel seaside, and kitsch, if it hadn't been left to ruin, I don't have a problem with apartments. Not if they're designed with real flare. 32 apartments means 32 new faces on the seafront, at least. That means 32 new dreamers, 32 new dreams.
Finest raw (or seasoned) material, the stuff we dream about. Dreaming of dancing, who knows, with passion, one day there might be a new Sylvester's in town.
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